Diary of a Prisoner
by Linda Lupos
Summary: Imagine Sirius Black kept a diary...


Diary of a prisoner.  
  
A story by Linda Lupos.  
  
November 1, 1981.  
  
This is my mental diary, to prevent me from going insane. And the place they want to put me in probably will make me insane. My name is Sirius Black, and they think I betrayed my best friends and let "my Master", the evil wizard Voldemort, kill them. But I did not. It was Peter Pettigrew, someone I once considered a friend, who betrayed them. He also killed several Muggles, and now everybody's thinking I did that too. Peter blew a street apart, changed himself into a rat and disappeared. Then the Ministry of Magic arrived, convinced it was me who did it. But I will tell them it was Peter. Somehow I will convince them. Someone's coming.  
  
November 2, 1981.  
  
It was Barto Crouch. He told me I was to be send to Azkaban without a trial. So everybody's sure I did it. I wanted to tell him it wasn't me, but obviously he didn't believe me. He said I can't prove a thing, and the worse thing is: he's right. Everybody, including Dumbledore, thinks I was the Secret-Keeper. So now I'm going to Azkaban, the feared wizard-prison. Tonight someone will come to pick me up. I´ll probably be heavily guarded; even Crouch didn't want to see me unless I was chained and flanked by two guards. Coward, like I can curse someone without a wand. Guess I´ll have to enjoy my last hours in this prison. What would Harry be doing now? And the others? Would they all be thinking I did it? My parents do. They visited me yesterday and my mother was crying. My father said he couldn't believe it. I tried to tell it wasn't me, but then he said he couldn't believe I even tried to blame Peter. He told me the biggest part they found of him was his finger. But, he has been given the Order of Merlin First Class. Finally, after all this years, he gets rewarded. But what for? Betraying his friends. My parents said this was the last time I would ever see them again, and that I brought shame on the family.  
  
Somebody's coming. What's that feeling? Like ice… God, it feels terrible. Like I can never be happy again. What is that?!  
  
December 25, 1981.  
  
I'm finally getting used to this. The first days were terrible. The things that walked into my cell were Dementors, the guards of Azkaban. They suck every happy thought out of you. I must prevent myself from thinking of how my life was, before… it happened.  
  
Today it's Christmas. I know because we got some extra food. I got chocolatemilk, cold, and the guy next to me got an egg. Not much of a Christmas-dinner, compared to last year – stop thinking.  
  
I wonder what Harry is doing. Is he already used to his uncle and aunt? Do they have any children at all? I'm desperate for news. Life is extremely boring here. The only thing I can do is counting as high as I can. I tried to sing at first, but the Dementors made me stop. I'm not cheerful enough to sing. I can count until 900 before I loose the count. I also tried to think of a way to escape, but the usual ways are no good. Digging your way out with a spoon is very hard when you don't get a spoon with your food. Why don't they write books about how to escape from Azkaban?  
  
Apparently the guy on the other side of the hallway is dying, the Dementors get pretty excited.  
  
January 1982.  
  
Today or tomorrow is my birthday. I can count until 1200 now. My hair is hanging into my eyes.  
  
Harry's a year and a half now. Wonder what he's doing.  
  
June 1982.  
  
Harry's second birthday. And I'm not there to celebrate it. Maybe the Dursleys put him in an orphanage. Could be. I remember his first birthday. He got a toy dragon and a toy wand. And Mrs Pettigrew made some clothes for him. Lily and James – stop thinking. Start counting.  
  
1, 2, 3, 4, 5…..  
  
A few minutes later…  
  
If I can get out of this prison Peter will die. I'm sure of it. It won't be hard for his mother because she already thinks he's dead. He's probably living as a rat. How convenient.  
  
October 1982.  
  
They brought a new guy in, only a boy. They say it's the son of Barto Crouch and that he helped murdering Frank Longbottom and his wife. I can't believe it. He's just 18 or 19 or something. He was crying when the Dementors put him in his cell, I can hear him. He's getting more quiet though.  
  
Wonder what date it is, so I can calculate how long I'm here. Must be nearly a year. A year since – stop thinking or I´ll run mad.  
  
I can count until 1550 now. My hair is hanging on my shoulders, I really need to cut it. Guess the Dementors won't do that. Not likely they're going to give me a pair of scissors.  
  
Wonder what the other are doing. My parents, Remus, Harry. And Dumbledore, I wish I hadn't been so stubborn and suggested to make Peter the Secret- Keeper. Harry would have had parents now. He's now two years and 3 months. I guess he can walk now. Soon he would have got his first broom, for children. But I don't think the Dursleys are going to give him one. I remember my first ride on a broom. No, don't think of happy memories. The Dementors are sure to suck it out.  
  
Ah, food. Bread with cheese and coffee. It's to much to die for and to less to live on.  
  
December 25, 1982.  
  
Christmas again. I got some extra food; some jam for my bread. It's delicious, never tasted something that good. I ate very slowly and enjoyed every part of it.  
  
The Crouch-boy is getting more and more quiet. In the beginning he cried for his mother, now he doesn't do even that. The guy next to me says he's dying, but he's not. I know when someone's dying. I've been here long enough to know.  
  
It's freezing here. At least my ears aren't freezing of, my hair is long enough to keep them warm. I could use a shower though.  
  
Nice example for Harry. Wonder what he's doing. Guess James didn't think of this kind of situations when he made me godfather. I believe I can finally think of James without getting depressed. Let's try, just a memory with him. Like when we were on Hogwarts, planning our next Full-Moon-trip. With Remus and Peter. And then we…  
  
Stop thinking, start counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6….  
  
  
  
Somewhere in the summer, 1983.  
  
My cell is very hot. I need to know which date it is. Is it already June? If so, it's Harry's birthday soon. His third already. What would he get? What would I have given him? Maybe a pet. A black dog, that would be cute. And then he can name him Puppy – stop thinking.  
  
Or some toy. A new broom. He can sure walk, so it would have been time he learned how to fly. I bet he can fly as good as – his father. Maybe J – his father would even have explained the basic rules of Quidditch. Not that he would have understood them, but that doesn't matter. Hey, my food.  
  
It seems as they refuse to give the prisoners more water than their normal quantity. Apparently they want us to die of thirst. That son of Crouch will die soon enough. He's all quiet now. I heard rumours his parents may visit him. I wish my parents would visit me once. But they never would.  
  
I can count until 2000 and my hair is very long. Useful in cold winters, a hell in hot summers. I tried to make braids in them, to give me an occupation, but it didn't work. I don't know how to do it, and now I've got knots in my hair. I must look like an animal.  
  
Very cold, so near the winter of 1983.  
  
Is it already November? If so, I'm here for two years already.  
  
Heard Mr and Mrs Crouch are visiting their son next week, because he's dying. Maybe I should pretend I'm dying, so people are coming to see me. No, it would be hard to fool the Dementors. Oh well, I'm already fooling them because I found out I can still change into a dog. It makes me less human, and apparently they think I'm dying too. Good.  
  
About two weeks later.  
  
Crouches son is dead. At least he saw his mother. She was nearly dead too; Crouch had to carry her. Or at least that's what I've heard.  
  
It's terribly cold. My hands are freezing of. Luckily my hair is long enough to use it as some kind of gloves.  
  
December 25, 1983.  
  
Christmas, got a banana. Delicious. Only wish I got it in the summer. Now it tasted more like banana-ice-cream.  
  
Wonder what's happening outside. Wonder what Harry is doing.  
  
January, 1984.  
  
Is it already my birthday? What's Harry doing? He's 3 and a half now.  
  
Trying to think of an escape-plan. After I've escaped and killed Peter, I'm going to see how Harry's doing.  
  
Can count until 2500 now. Hair is almost on my elbows.  
  
Summer 1984.  
  
Harry's four now. He would probably be going to school after summer. Not sure; don't knot much of these things.  
  
I'm sweating out of my cell. Trying to make up a story like Lord of the Rings. Need an occupation or will run mad.  
  
  
  
December 25, 1984.  
  
Christmas number 3. I'm here for 3 years and still not insane. Reason for a party, but I expect the Dementors won't organise anything. Boring creatures.  
  
Got a piece of meat today. It was frozen stiff. Somebody need to teach them how to cook. Harry 4 and a half. What's he doing? Is he having fun? Are the Dursleys giving him presents? They better do…  
  
My Lord of the Rings tale failed. It got too complicated. Shall start another story if I survive this winter.  
  
January 1985.  
  
Another birthday. I'm 25 now. Still in prison. ´spect I´ll still be here when I'm 52. Really something to look forward to…  
  
Spring 1985.  
  
Something happened. They say Ludo Bagman is a Dead Eater. They're still cleaning them up. Can't believe it. Ludo can't be one. He's not smart enough. Hm, forgot Peter wasn't smart either. Oh well, let's see what happens. Got another neighbour. Last one died. Apparently the cell next to me isn't very comfortably; all my neighbours died in about 4 weeks. Of course the two Dementors before my door don't have anything to do with it…  
  
What are the others doing? I want news!  
  
December 25, 1985.  
  
And again it's Christmas. This is the fourth already. Maybe I can start making a sort of calendar on the wall, to see which date it is. I can carve something using my dog-claws.  
  
I got milk today. It was cold but it tasted good. It was still fresh. Better than that bread and coffee I usually get. Harry's 5 now. I forgot to celebrate his birthday! What would I have given him? He would probably get a broom or something from his parents. Maybe a - er – a book or something. A pet. What does one give a five-years old child?! I'm not used to this. Or I can give him a training in how-to-survive-in-Azkaban. I wish I got that for my birthday. Well, it's simple. Just don't think happy thoughts. Don't centre on happy memories, because the Dementors will suck it out. Like the opposite of Mary Poppins. Too bad I can't fly…  
  
God, it's cold. Fingers are purple. Maybe winding hair around them helps. Ah, that's better.  
  
January 1986.  
  
26 today. Or tomorrow. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. Somewhere around these days. Tonight it rained so hard the water ran all the way down, in my cell. At least I was able to take some kind of shower. Pity the water was almost freezing.  
  
Where would Peter be hiding? Maybe in the sewers. I hope he dies in a fight with another rat. No, he may not die. I want to kill him.  
  
Summer 1986.  
  
Harry's 6. Bloody hot. Hair on my middle. Can count until 2780.  
  
Got a new neighbour, a fanatic Dead Eater. Somehow he heard who I am, so now he keeps yelling I killed his master. Irritating. First I couldn't sleep because of the heath, now I can't sleep because of him. Hope he dies soon.  
  
A few days later.  
  
They put me into another cell because there were riots among the prisoners. The news ones at least, the ones with enough energy to yell. They kept yelling they were going to kill me, and now the Dementors put me in another cell. This one is better, it has a tiny little window, two meters above my head. At least I can get some light.  
  
These Dementors are really nice…  
  
Two weeks later.  
  
Okay, this cell isn't really nice. I forgot the rain comes though the window. At least I can take some sort of shower…  
  
It feels delicious to be wet. It feels a lot cleaner. But my hair must look wilder than ever.  
  
December 25, 1986.  
  
My fifth Christmas here. Don't they celebrate things like that? Guess not.  
  
Got some bacon for my bread today. Ate very slowly, so it would take longer before it was finished.  
  
Wonder what Harry is doing. He's surely going to school now. Is he still living in Little Winging, with the Dursleys? I want news!  
  
January 1987.  
  
Is it my birthday yet?  
  
Spring 1987.  
  
Got an idea. Maybe there are some stones which I can take out of the wall, so I can make a hole. Let's try…  
  
A few weeks later.  
  
Tried the whole cell, it didn't work. Too bad.  
  
Summer of 1987.  
  
Taking sunbathes through my window. Hope they never replace me. Bless the one who invented the window! Sometimes there's even a breath of wind coming through it, so I'm not dying because of the heath.  
  
If it's Harry's birthday, he's 7 now. 7? Is it already 7 years ago he was born? Getting old. What does one give a 7 years old wizard? A puffskein? Might be fun. A shirt of his favourite Quidditch-club.  
  
November 1987.  
  
The winter is early this year. It's very cold, and I need a new blanket. Curse the one who invented the window!  
  
December 25, 1987.  
  
Cold. Cold. Cold. I'm freezing. Got cheese today. It was too cold to enjoy it.  
  
Summer again, 1988.  
  
It's summer again. Harry's 8. Hey, I forgot my own birthday; I'm… er… 27? No, I'm 28. That's old, compared to Harry.  
  
It's very hot again. But luckily I got my window! My hair is somewhere on my middle, I really need to cut it.  
  
December 25, 1988.  
  
Today was my lucky day, because I got hot tea and a new blanket. Don't know why I got it, but I feel deliciously warm. Planning to go to bed really early, so I can enjoy my warm bed.  
  
Almost forgot this was my eight Christmas here. Maybe I can make it into some record-book, as the person who survived after eight, more than eight years.  
  
Harry's 8 and a half now. 3 and a half years to go, then he can go to Hogwarts. Wonder what house the Sorting Hat will put him in. No, I don't wonder. It's going to be Gryffindor, I'm sure about it. Maybe he can make it into the Gryffindor Quidditch-team, like his father.  
  
I can count up to 3400 now.  
  
Summer 1989.  
  
Harry's 9 now. What would he be doing with those Dursleys? Are they treating him nicely? They better do… Somebody's coming, but it isn't a Dementor. Is someone at long last visiting me?  
  
A few hours later.  
  
This must be my lucky day. It was a guy who said he had the order to cut my hair and give me a shower, a warm shower. I feel great, I'm all showered and shaved. They even shaved my head, but that's only good in the summer. I wonder who gave that guy his order. Could it be Dumbledore? He seems to be the only one who cares a little for me. Must be careful not to get too happy, or the Dementors are going to have a feast with my thoughts.  
  
November, I guess, 1989.  
  
I'm here for 8 years. 2 more years and I can give a party. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with Peter when I get him. Shall I kill him or shall I put him in Azkaban, like myself? Hard decision…  
  
December 25, 1989.  
  
Got an apple today. It was to cold to enjoy it. My ears are freezing off, but I can always cover my head with my blanket.  
  
January 1990.  
  
I'm 30. Man, I'm getting old. What if I had a son like Harry? J- his father is 30 too.  
  
I would never have guessed I would be here on my 30th birthday.  
  
Summer of 1990.  
  
Harry's 10. One year, then he can go to Hogwarts. I'm not sure if those Dursleys are going to let him go, though. If it hadn't been for Peter, this wouldn't have been a question, he would surely go to Hogwarts. One day Peter is going to pay for all this.  
  
December 25, 1990.  
  
My ninth Christmas. Today I got some chicken. It was frozen stiff, but one could eat it. Would I get a special meal if I'm still alive next year?  
  
Summer of 1991.  
  
Harry's going to get the letter one of these days, he's 11 now. I can remember when I got the letter, saying I was accepted to Hogwarts. Now Harry can meet everybody there; Dumbledore, Hagrid, McGonagall. Not sure if anyone wants to meet the last one, but he'll probably meet her anyway. If his parents were still alive, he would be going to Diagon Alley and do some shopping. A cauldron, his schoolbooks, ingredients for his potions and of course a wand. I wonder who's teaching at Hogwarts now. Maybe Dumbledore sacked that stupid Trelawney-woman.  
  
A few days later.  
  
Why do I get sudden visions of Remus reading one of Shakespeare's sonnets? What was it again? "Shall I compare thee to a summers day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate" or something like that. Guess Shakespeare didn't mean the summers days in Azkaban.  
  
December 25, 1991.  
  
Harry's first Christmas at Hogwarts. I remember my Christmases at Hogwarts, with the twelve Christmas-trees and everything. And the huge pile of presents from my family and friends. Must stop thinking about that, it's a too happy thought.  
  
This is my tenth Christmas here, and are they celebrating it? No, of course not. Those Dementors are really really boring. Got an egg today, and it wasn't even raw. They forgot the salt however.  
  
January 1992.  
  
I'm 32 now. Wonder what Harry's doing now. Maybe I'm finally dying, I'm getting very skinny. Or is this the first time I notice it?  
  
I can count until 3650 now, and my hair is hanging on my shoulders.  
  
Summer 1992.  
  
Harry's 12 now. He will start his second year after the summer. I wonder if he's good at school, and if he has some friends. Would that huge cut still be visible? A scar like a bold of lightning, could be cool.  
  
What can I do to prevent myself from boring to dead? I tried to make up a story, but it didn't work. And I tried singing, but that didn't work too. Maybe I can try and make a poem. No, I'm not good at that. Oh well, I can always change into a dog and back again to give me an occupation for a while.  
  
December 25, 1992.  
  
My eleventh Christmas here and Harry's second Christmas at Hogwarts. I wonder how he likes school. What would his favourite lesson be? Maybe potions, that's interesting. Or charms. If he is just a little like his father he would love flying class.  
  
Got orange juice today. My hair is growing over my shoulders, halfway down my arms.  
  
January 1993.  
  
I'm 33 and I'm still in this damn prison. Harry's 12 and a half now. Wonder what he's doing and how he's doing. I'm sure he's alright, Dumbledore must be watching over him.  
  
April or something, 1993.  
  
Tonight I dreamed I heard Hagrid talk. Silly dream. Of all the people I could dream of, I dream of Hagrid. It was a very vivid dream though. Stupid.  
  
My hair is near my elbows now, it's growing very fast. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it rained a lot the past days, so I'm actually constantly wet. Must be careful I don't catch a cold. My mom always warned me for that – stop thinking of her.  
  
I can count up to 3800 now.  
  
July 14, 1993.  
  
Haha! I got a paper! And a small pencil! Some guy named Cornelius Fudge who called himself the Minister of Magic came and visited me. He had a paper and I asked if I could get it, to make the cross-word, and he gave it to me! He even gave me a small pencil to write with. I'm going to read the paper over and over again, to give me something to do. I'm going to do the cross-word and maybe even the daily chess-problem, although James was always better at solving that one. Let's see, it's the Daily Prophet. Apparently they changed the lay-out the past 12 years. A picture, what does it say? Oh, a family just won the annual Galleon-draw. It's a big family. It's… it's… oh my God.  
  
Next day, July 15, 1993.  
  
I found Peter. He's with that Weasley-family, as a pet of one of those boys, the youngest I think. He lived as a rat for twelve years?! I can't believe it!  
  
The text under the picture says the boy attends Hogwarts, so Peter must be going there too. Apparently Peter is his pet, because he's sitting on the boys shoulder. Without knowing, the true traitor of the Potters has been right under Dumbledore´s nose, as a pet of one of his students. I wonder how old that boy is. He's tall, maybe 13 or 14. A little older than Harry, who will be 13 in 16 days. Maybe they even know each other! Anyway, I'm going to try and escape, I just have to find a way how. Maybe I can use my ability to change into a dog. Peter is going to pay for his actions as the helper of Voldemort. Now I only have to think of a plan…  
  
July 29, 1993.  
  
I'm going to escape tonight. I've got a good plan, if I do say so myself. I'm going to change into a dog, and when the Dementors come to give me my food, I'm going to slip through the door. I'm skinny enough to do that. Then I can try and swim back to the shore and go to Hogwarts to get Peter. Then I can kill him and maybe I can convince Dumbledore or someone like that it was Peter who betrayed the Potters. Or if not, I´ll die knowing I avenged my friends. I believe they're coming with my food. Too bad I have to miss that. Now let's change into a dog, before they notice it.  
  
There we go.  
  
August 7, 1993.  
  
I'm free! My plan worked. Those Dementors really don't notice anything. I just followed them down to the gate, slipped through the bars of it, swam to the shore, and I escaped! Of course they noticed after a while, and now I'm being sought after. I even saw my face on the muggle-television. I hope my grandma doesn't see it, it would give her a heart-attack.  
  
Anyway, it's night now, and I have no idea what I'm doing here. Well, I do have an idea, but it's a little stupid; I'm at Privet Drive, in Little Winging. I want to see Harry before I'm going to Hogwarts. I'm not really sure if I can get on the grounds.  
  
I've been watching the house the whole day. Nothing interesting happened though. There is a huge and fat boy living here, maybe it's the Dursley´s son. They should put him on a diet, the sight of him just makes me want to vomit, it's disgusting. As I said, it is night now and – a door. What's happening? Somebody's coming out, a small figure. Who's that? It looks like… no, it can't be… Harry? God, he looks just like his father, only smaller. What is he doing outside when it's this late? And with… with… a trunk? What's happening? He looking this way, is he seeing me? Harry, it's me, your – he's falling! I scared him, I must get out of here.  
  
At least I saw him once. Apparently he's doing well. Now let's get to Hogwarts, so I can kill that slimy, dirty rat called Peter Pettigrew…  
  
The End. 


End file.
